If Freddy had talked with someone that fateful Thursday, it could have been when he first parked his truck-no four-wheeler tracks led up to the Borracho Springs campground. Or, it could have been on the two-track below the cave. Or…
Estelle rubbed her forehead with frustration. Backtracking the boy’s movements from that awful moment when he’d hurled into the arroyo was going to be a hit-or-miss undertaking. Her hand froze, the light in the room just enough for her to see the shadow of her fingers. She replayed the memory of seeing the boy on his four-wheeler, raising dust along the highway, and knew exactly where to start.
Chapter Thirty-four
An hour at the Sheriff’s Office in the quiet of early Monday morning was more than adequate to review the depressingly short list of evidence. The bullet fragment in the front tire of the four-wheeler was brass, which meant a jacketed projectile, rather than the pure lead of a.22 rimfire. The Smith and Wesson that Freddy had recovered offered two clear fingerprints that belonged to the young man, along with some smudgy, useless prints, but nothing more. Fingerprints on the magazine and a thumbprint on each cartridge belonged to the gun’s owner, Eddie Johns, matched to a set faxed to their department by Grant County. No longer did they have to depend on Miles Waddell’s opinion for the corpse’s identity. Where Johns had purchased the weapon was still open to question, but Estelle expected no great revelations there.
Sgt. Tom Mears had found an address in Las Cruces that appeared to be the most recent residence for Johns, and had set out for the city before dawn to start the process toward obtaining a warrant. The man’s landlord-if there was one-might have interesting things to say, as might a mortgage holder. That no one had reported Johns missing in the first place didn’t surprise Estelle. Johns wasn’t the sort who would be missed-or at least whose absence would be regretted, except by those to whom he owed money.
The puzzle remained about one boot-the remains found in the cave included remnants of shirt, trousers, and underwear and a sock. Coyotes could account for that, tugging the boots away as playthings, the leather soles offering a pleasant chew.
The single pistol bullet recovered from the cave ceiling was a tentative match with the slug found in the cat’s skull, and the loaded rounds remaining in the Smith and Wesson. The single.40 shell casing, the packrat’s prize, was a certain match with the handgun.
Tires had bent grass near the homestead but little else-enough only for a rough measurement that would fit the track of any modern, full-sized pickup, or even some sedans. Nothing linked those tracks to either the evidence in the cave, or for that matter, to Freddy’s fatal dive. The oil seep that Jackie Taber had found was just that, indicating only that someone had recently parked beside the old homestead. Recently, so that the oil hadn’t soaked away. But that was no certain clock.
Shortly before eight that Monday morning, Estelle left the office and drove south on State 56, mulling the added puzzle of the five years that had passed between the deaths of Eddie Johns and Freddy Romero. Freddy’s lie about the cave location was simple enough-he’d found something intriguing, and with a teenager’s confidence that his actions would prompt no consequences, had kept the cave’s location a secret so he could explore further. He’d then found the pistol, and bolted, speeding back toward town. To inform authorities? Probably not. To return better equipped for exploration and recovery? Probably. Had someone chased him off the site? Had someone chased him toward another party, lying in wait with a rifle?
The tires of her Crown Victoria thumped across the expansion joints of the Rio Guijarro bridge, and Estelle realized that so preoccupied was she that she had no recollection of the twenty-six miles that had passed. As she braked to turn off the highway, she keyed the mike and checked in with dispatch, but the rest of the county was thankfully quiet.
No patrons were parked in front of the Broken Spur Saloon, but the establishment’s hours were flexible-the bar was open whenever owner Victor Sanchez decided to turn the key-sometimes by seven in the morning to catch the traveling breakfast flock, sometimes by ten. The sign on the front door claimed 8:00 AM to midnight daily except a sleep-in until 1:00 PM on Sunday. Victor managed his somewhat casual version of that 107 hour workweek with assistance from his son, Victor Junior, and the mother-daughter team of Mary and Macie Trujillo, who commuted over the pass from Regál each day.
The Trujillos had worked at Victor’s for less than a year, hired after Gus Prescott’s eldest daughter Christine had resigned from bartending to attend college in Las Cruces.
As Estelle pulled into the Broken Spur’s parking lot, she saw the Trujillos’ Jeep nosed in along the east side of the adobe building. Just visible behind the squat saloon was Victor Junior’s aging Dodge Ram Charger. Estelle drove around the rear of the saloon, and saw that Victor’s semi-vintage Cadillac was missing from its usual spot beside the mobile home that teed into the saloon itself.
She parked beside the Jeep. The dash clock read 8:12 AM, and Estelle made the notation in her log before climbing out of the car. She stood in the blast of morning sunshine for a moment, looking down the highway. The sun would have been at her back on Thursday, when she’d seen the ATV roaring down the highway shoulder. She hadn’t paid any attention at the time. There had been no other traffic that she could remember. If someone had been pursuing Freddy, he wouldn’t have seen the boy turn off the highway, swerving down behind the saloon.
But someone at the saloon could have. She turned and surveyed the building. Only the small, frosted restroom window faced east, but someone standing in either the saloon’s front door or the kitchen entrance would have an unobstructed view. The undersheriff closed her eyes, forcing her memory to concentrate, but there had been no reason to pay attention at the time. She’d been preoccupied with paperwork, remembered catching a glimpse of an ATV, and that had been it.
She could imagine the agile little machine cutting across the saloon’s parking lot, but she had no clear recollection of it. The ATV had to have done that-or disappear into thin air. The ATV and rider would have been momentarily obscured by patrons’ vehicles…a handful of pickups and SUVs, perhaps?
She shook her head with impatience and walked toward the back door. The kitchen door was open, and she rapped on the screen’s frame.
“Hey, in here,” a husky woman’s voice called, and Estelle tipped the door open and stepped inside. Mary Trujillo was standing on a short, three-step ladder, hard at work on the stainless stove hood with bucket and sponge. “Well, how about that,” she said with a broad smile. She stepped down carefully and set the bucket on the floor. “You come for some coffee? Just made a pot.”
“No thanks. How are you doing, Mary?”
“Well, when it comes down to it, I’m just fine. Victor had to go to Cruces, if it’s him you’re looking for.”
“Probably not,” Estelle replied. Victor Sanchez had not built his moderately successful business with pleasant personality. In fact, his foul temper was legendary. Bill Gastner could usually goad the saloonkeeper to civility, and Bobby Torrez could but didn’t bother. Estelle had noticed that on the rare occasions when she’d been in the Broken Spur, Victor had simply ignored her. He had no love of law enforcement, and Estelle respected his reasons.